


Hell, Fallujah, Same Thing

by piq_snine



Category: Cut & Run - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux
Genre: Anal, Fingering, M/M, pina colada, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:49:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2170017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piq_snine/pseuds/piq_snine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little look into the tryst of one Liam Bell and Tyler Grady.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell, Fallujah, Same Thing

“Liam _fucking_ Bell,” someone had said as soon as he’d walked into canteen. He’d just returned from a mission, covert, black ops, just like every mission given here, and realized that he wasn’t the only one who was sweaty and dirty with their pulse still elevated from the copter ride back from – _wherever_.

 

Blue eyes cast about the room, finding a pair of green-hazel staring back at him with some level of heat. But the man wasn’t the one who’d said his name with such fondness. He didn’t tear his eyes away from the American though, as another’s arm slinked around his shoulders and yanked him over to the queue for lunch (or was it dinner by now? Are eggs served at dinner?).

 

“You look like shit, kid.” The voice drawled in something similar but altogether different than the western most part of the U.K. isles. There was a clap of a heavy, gloved hand against his sternum, still vibrating, numb rather, from the aftershocks of cover fire of mortar shells and grenades. His right ear must be perforated because there was a sudden other body that sidled up next to him. “Let’s get some food, huh?”

 

He knew his rank, the American Irishman, but he didn’t use it, they weren’t supposed to use their military ranks here. Hell, they didn’t even use _Agent_ or even _Asset_. No codenames given either, it was simply Bell, O’Flagherty, Abbott, and, said with more weight and silken warmth some nights, Grady. _Grady_.

 

Bell grabbed the tray handed to him, his fingers trembling from gripping his AK for too long. It wasn’t his gun, but he’d used it. He could still feel the slide of blade through flesh and nick bone, the gurgle of pain and the exasperation of the finality of death. He was hard, as he usually was with adrenaline coursing through his body, but it stirred hotter the closer he’d gotten to Grady and the rest of his temporary team. Abbott and MacCalister clamoring for a seat next to Agiuilez – Of which, the Lady punched MacCalister, who’d won the seat, off the bench and placed a heavy boot covered in ash and fine dirt on the steel seat.

 

“You look like shit, Bell.” Grady ground out, voice hoarse from shouting orders over guns and screams of the dying, his eyes were veiled with exhaustion, an almost and near panic, and heavily concealed hysterics. Grady had been taught well, not to react to – whatever it was that he’d seen. Grady was good like that. Grady was good.

 

“I’ll have you know,” Bell lifted up a floppy piece of bread, bits of hash and egg flying inelegantly across the table. Aguilez groaned and sniffed at Bell, but he ignored her, his target was Grady. “That the other man looks worse off.”

 

“Hard to confirm that when they’re in a body bag,” Grady made his wince look like a wink. Bell applauded him for that. Bravery, Grady had that in spades.

 

“Not when they’re still cuffed to you.” Bell whispered in his best stage voice, as if he were sharing a conspiracy, eyes widened with mockery.

 

“Anyone see that helo that landed earlier?” Abbott, god bless that beautiful man, shared over a cup of coffee. “Looks like someone had it rough.”

 

“That’s how I like it, darling.” Bell returned to his eggs, tasteless and spongy. Everything didn’t taste like anything. Even the coffee that he never drinks – oh, wait, that’s Grady’s cup.

 

“What? Coming in hot and heavy?” Abbott chuckled before flinching like he was about to attack when a hand clapped his shoulder. Digger (the only man here with a nickname, except if you could speak French. Bell can speak French, he liked to speak it to Grady when they writhed like serpents in a den).

 

“Hot, heavy, sideways, upside down,” Bell chugged the rest of Grady’s coffee. “Any way I can get it.”

 

“Pervs,” Aguilez snorted, her lilt bringing the boys’ attentions to her. Despite her being able to keep up with the men in ‘ass kickery’, you couldn’t stop the human condition. That is, to fuck or think about fucking. Maslow’s most fun part of the hierarchy of needs.

 

Speaking of fucking.

 

“I wonder if there’s pineapple.” Bell said into his empty mug, looking down at the black and soggy grounds.

 

“Again with the pineapple!” Digger complained four people down. “They had pineapple three days ago, but did you eat any of it? No, no. You didn’t take any of it, _here_.” Bell sneered at the man’s twisted and mutilated French Cajun ‘here’, making it sound more like a ‘huh’ and ‘eugh’. It was difficult to explain to articulate just the type of sound, _syntax_ , but the sudden heat in a certain pair of hazel eyes distracted Bell on the finer points of muddled linguistics.

 

“Pineapple, huh?” Grady said, staring at his empty mug of coffee Bell returned. “I think Calflooking has some in logistics. They might be candied though.”

 

Grady got up, none-too-quickly, and deposited his empty tray and mug into a soapy bucket. Bell watched where he was going. If he went left it was to the bunks, if he went right- mmh, _right_ , logistics. Bell cleared his plate with gusto before following Grady’s tracks to the suds bucket then down the hall to the right.

 

Maybe he could pin the man against a crate, see if they can get tangled in the cargo net before someone catches them. Or, perhaps, he could drag Grady to a storage unit and get a nice sweaty rhythm tapped out before he came hard inside of the tough-as-nails American. Bell didn’t concern himself with the people that tried to get his attention; he had another mission, a very covert one in mind. The one where he pushes Grady up against the wall and begged to be fucked half way to Fallujah and back. Hell, Fallujah, all the same.

 

Bell didn’t have time to respond as Grady yanked him to the side as soon as the storage unit door closed behind him. Mouth attached itself to Bell’s neck, licking, sucking, wanting to bite the man. With as wired up at Grady was, Bell didn’t think that he had the mind not to bite and draw blood. That would be difficult to explain to the medic’s on where he’d gotten that, again.

 

Grady ground down against Bell’s ass, chest pressed against the hot metal wall and humped him. God, did Bell want this. He was already sweating, not from exertion, no, but from the oppressive heat of the storage unit. No window or air-conditioning in here. Hot, sweaty, hard, and fast, that’s how Bell was going to get it today. He shivered as Grady’s hands scrabbled greedily to his fly, plastic buckles of weapon’s holster’s bypassed, Grady shoved his gloved hand down Bells pants and _squeezed_.

 

“Good Lord, man,” Bell gasped into the oppressive air. Grady growled and ground down on Bell. Bell arched his back so that he could press his arse more into Grady’s cradling hips, erection (or gun) pressed against his arse cheeks. “Do be careful with that thing. I’d hate to be laid up because of you.”

 

“I’ll lay you up,” Grady bit off before yanking down Bells trousers, camoflauge gathered at his thighs, sinuous, quivering, flexing, muscles glinted sweat in the pinhole lights. Bell heard the tear of foil, felt being slicked up before another tear of foil and the hurried but well-practiced snap of a condom. “Ribbed for her pleasure, baby.”

 

“If you are insinuating that I am the female counterpart in this – _fuck_ – relationship,” pausing, Grady’s fingers (hopefully cleaned from grime and blood) dug and bent and prodded their way into Bell. He felt blunt nails teasing at his insides. Bell gasped, “Fuck me already Grady. You goddamned bitch in heat. Take that mother _fuck_ ing cock and shove it into my arsehole, you cock sucking – _ah!_ ”

 

He’d always liked it rough. Besides, Grady could tell that Bell had already pleasured himself before walking into canteen. His arse was loose enough to allow Grady to fully sheath himself inside of him, grunting, hips snapping, sweat dripping onto his back and arse. It stung, though, where gravel had marked his lower back as he was dragged a few feet by a galloping horse. Damned thing wouldn’t listen to him. But when Grady bit Bell through his shirt, down into the strap of his Kevlar vest, Bell gave a hoarse cry, silenced by his own hand.

 

Grady pounded into him from behind, hips bucking wildly against his arse, he could feel, he could _taste_ Grady’s cock in the back of his throat the Marine was fucking his so hard. He was going to be absolutely wreaked when the man was done with him. Hands pressed loving bruises into his hips, gripped and almost scratched into his flesh. Bell’s hips rocked back and forth, just as aggressively as Grady was giving it – mostly. Bell didn’t have the angle or the leverage to pound back, but he did have YouTube and a quick tutorial on twerking. He laughed the first dozen times he’d seen it. So distasteful, but, once applied to sex, man, was it ever the best. Besides, he was able to drag out those beautiful sounds from the man behind him when he flexed his hips just so.

 

Hips stuttered against Bells’, Grady was close, and he was going to explode inside of Bell. He was ready for it though. “Come for me, you fucktard. Come so hard I can taste you for a week. Let me feel it, _damn_ , let me have it.”

 

Four abbreviated thrusts later Grady came with what should have been a shout. Kevlar can stop just about anything. Bullets, knives (at certain angles), dog and camel bites, and, apparently, Grady bites as well. The man should have chipped a tooth.

 

The smell of Pina Colada assaulted Bell’s nose, then he felt a slick hand wrap around his cock as he was striped to pleasure. It didn’t take much, he’d been thrusting into his own hand for some time now, but Grady’s hand felt better. Two more, no, three, and he came against the hot metal wall. Thank the Pope that this wall hadn’t been facing the sun, otherwise he’d have burn’s in tender places. Bell thought he heard something sizzle anyways.

 

“Pina Colada?” Bell gasped out as he pulled his trousers back up, Grady was already zipping up.

 

“Ran out of Pineapple.” Grady grunted, winked, and followed Bell in for a kiss.

 

“Eugh,” Bell pushed away with a smile. “I hate coconut.”

 

“You’d eat it if I shoved my fingers in your mouth.” Grady countered as he dragged Bell against him by the weapon’s strap at his hip.

 

“That’s why you call me a slut, remember?” Bell kissed Grady’s cheek, where grit and about a weeks’ worth of beard rubbed at his lips.

 

“I call you a slut because you like it,” Grady moaned then necked Bell hungrily. “And it’s the truth.” In his best imitation of Manchester English, continued, “And, sir, I’m nothing if not truthful.”

 

Grady pulled off quickly as they heard thumping boots outside of the door just behind the Marine. Bell didn’t move, even if Grady had frozen. He waltzed up to Grady, grin on his face. Grady had always hated how Bell was quieter than anyone with the steel toed boots. He walked as if he were barefooted, and it irritated Grady that he couldn’t copy that grace. Bell smiled, winked, and then threw his arms around the American.

 

“I should call you Nothing, then.” Bell kissed Grady.

 

“Sweet talker,” Grady breathed.

 

“Five today,” Bell whispered.

 

“Two for me,” Grady replied solemnly, as if he were being tortured for the numbers.

 

“Killing shouldn’t be difficult, Grady.” Bell wiped at his brow, sweat pouring off of him now.

 

“It shouldn’t be a sport either.” Grady snapped.

 

“It’s not,” Bell whispered against the shell of Grady’s ear, “It’s our job.” Bell kissed him sweetly, tenderly, attempting to convey just how he wasn’t enjoying the killing, but, rather, enjoying completing his job in the best way he can manage. “And we do it well.”

 

The next time Bell had seen Grady, two weeks and after a joined mission, he tried sharing a cup of his coffee. But the punch to the face was unexpected. Grady, Abbott, Digger, Owens, Sanchez, O’Flagherty, and Aguilez had sworn off coffee, and asked how he could not do the same after what they’d just been through together.

 

“I’m good at my job, boys.” Bell smiled wistfully in his cup, smacking his lips together, relishing the roiling burn and twist in his gut. He swallowed and noted the pallor on the men’s faces. “And I love my job.” He winked, and then walked away, enjoying his very black and very strong coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> Has anyone else noticed how the boy's don't drink coffee? I thought that significant in the way that Abiroux mentioned De LaVega first chapter, first book. Just saying.


End file.
